


Revelations

by Theobule (Saathi1013)



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, First Time, I'm Going to Hell, POV Female Character, POV Third Person Limited, Priest Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-08
Updated: 2015-05-08
Packaged: 2018-03-29 13:53:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3898759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saathi1013/pseuds/Theobule
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Five Times Father Matthew Surprised Claire, & One Time She Surprised Them Both"</p><p>Priest!Matt AU, written for a prompt at the Daredevil kinkmeme:</p><blockquote>
  <p>"Priest!Matt having hot consensual, sex with a churchgoer. Cue the catholic guilt."<br/>--http://daredevilkink.dreamwidth.org/725.html?thread=429781#cmt429781</p>
  <p>with "sacrilegious sex in a church, bonus points for Matt eating her out" from here:<br/>-- http://daredevilkink.dreamwidth.org/725.html?thread=675797#cmt675797</p>
  <p>and "action in a confessional booth" from here:<br/>-- http://daredevilkink.dreamwidth.org/725.html?thread=452053#cmt452053</p>
</blockquote><p>(honestly, there's a bit more to it than that - au worldbuilding, exploration(s) of Matt & Claire in this new setting, but I figured I'd cover the potential deal-breaker elements first)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Revelations

**Author's Note:**

> No beta; grammar/spelling errors, if pointed out, will be corrected ASAP. Additional concrit: pm me.
> 
> Prompter!Anon(s), if you want me to tag you here as the giftee, just let me know.
> 
> **Omg Dead-End-Street made[a graphic for this fic](http://dead-end-street.tumblr.com/post/118583198353/i-save-lives-you-save-souls-she-comments-and)! I'm so delighted!**

 

_one_

 

Claire hasn't been to church in what feels like forever, but when she walks into St. Paul's, the familiar, bone-deep quiet seeps up through her shoes from the flagstones. It's as if she's sixteen again, sneaking in after curfew because she remembered her grandmother telling her that if she ever made a mistake, she should ask for Jesus' forgiveness first, and her parents' second. It didn't make her parents' reaction any better, of course, but it gave Claire a moment of calm before the inevitable storm.  
  
She needs some of that calm tonight.   
  
The last candle she'd lit had been for the first death under her care, senseless and yet inescapable despite all her efforts to the contrary, and so, years later, it's fitting that she's lighting another candle for a similar demise. This one had been a Russian kid, blood staining the flashy suit they'd cut off him into rags; according to the cop who'd brought him in, he'd had more bravado than sense, and now he's got more bullets in his chest than breath.  
  
At the tiered bank of votives, Claire puts a coin in the tin and kneels.  
  
The first time she tries to light a match, the stem snaps between her fingers. She'd pushed too hard, and failed to elicit even a spark. The second time, the flame snuffs as soon as it flares, her sigh gusting it away. The third time's the charm, though, and the fire catches the wood and jumps to the wick easily, biting at her fingers before she shakes it out, leaving smoke and a sliver of charcoal in her hand.  
  
Claire whispers the dead boy's name to the candle and stands, not trusting herself to prayer beyond that gesture. Anything more would feel too much like performance after so long an absence.  
  
The ceiling arches high overhead, its sky-blue color nearly lost in shadow with the main lights switched off for the evening, but the sheer  _scale_  of the space makes her feel insignificant in a strangely comforting way. If she's merely an infinitesimal speck in a boundless universe, death carries a different weight. Solemnity, not guilt.  
  
Something unspools in Claire's chest as she walks down the length of the church, like a ball of yarn unrolling to mark the path she's taken. Everything about the architecture draws her forwards, towards the altar and the crucifix that looks almost understated compared to everything built around it. She genuflects at the rail, realizing that she's dropped to the wrong knee; when she rises, she feels her cheeks burning as if Aba Sofia is about to scold her.  
  
It's like this - carrying wisps of grief for a dead stranger, humbled, and slightly embarrassed - that she turns to leave, and spots the man in the shadows.  
  
"Holy  _shi-_ " she says, then claps her hand over her mouth.  
  
The man laughs, not unkindly, and steps forward, one hand outstretched in a calming gesture, the other holding a cane. "I'm sorry," he says. "But thank you for catching that, I'd hate to have caused, well, profanity in the truest sense of the word." His smile is wide and friendly, but she can see nothing of his eyes, hidden as they are behind round, dark lenses.  
  
Heart pounding, she takes a deep breath to reply acerbically about  _strange men lurking in the corners of dark churches,_  biting her tongue a second time as she sees the notched clerical collar he wears. "I'm sorry, Father, I didn't see you there," she says instead.  
  
"I guess we're even, then," he says, lifting his cane so that she can see it better.  
  
She covers her face with one hand. "I'm  _so_  sorry, I didn't mean-"  
  
He laughs again. "That's all right. And I'm Father Matthew, by the way."  
  
"It's good to meet you, Father Matthew," she responds. "I'm Claire. Claire Temple."

 

 

_two_

 

Without meaning to, it becomes a habit; Claire visits St. Paul's after work a few times a week and often runs into Father Matthew. She tells him how she feels like her job's getting harder, like the city's getting harsher, like everyone around her is losing hope. He seems to know the days when she just wants to talk herself out, when she wants him to say something - anything - to reassure her, and when she wants to sit in silence.  
  
Other times, they simply... talk. Not always about God or faith, but whatever comes to mind.  
  
Matthew tells her how he lost his sight. "I have a form of, um," he says, gesturing vaguely to his head, "sensory processing disorder, I think it's called? That's the best diagnosis they've come up with, at least, since my case is unique. It's because of the chemicals that caused my blindness, but emotional state can trigger episodes. It was especially bad after my dad died..."  
  
Claire learns that Jack Murdock worked at a deli during the day and as a boxer at night to make ends meet until he got shot. Matthew tells her he wound up in an orphanage after that. "There was this blind old Piarist - that's one of the Catholic religious orders, same way I'm a Jesuit - who taught me how to manage my sensory issues. So, you know, I owe the Church a lot. That's why I signed on; plus, I wanted to devote my life to making people's lives better."  
  
"How's that working out for you?" she asks, leaning forward, her forearms propped against the back of the pew in front of her.  
  
Matthew chuckles ruefully. "Like any other calling, I suppose - good days and bad days."  
  
"I save lives, you save souls," she comments, and he nods agreement.  
  
"Kind of. The Lord does the saving, I just... nudge people in His direction."  
  
Claire drops her head, looking at her hands as she asks, quietly, "...ever find someone you don't think can be saved?"  
  
She expects him to say that no soul's past saving, no one is beyond the reach of God's infinite love and forgiveness, but instead, he's silent for a long, long time. "Honestly? I'm still working on that one," he says at last.  
  
Claire's not sure how to respond to that.

 

 

_three_

 

Matthew's not always at St. Paul's when she visits, which is fine. It's enough, sometimes, to simply  _be_  in the church, taking solace in its evening hush after the chaos of her job. Sometimes she'll sit in a pew, page through a missal, the thin pages crackling sharply in the silence. Sometimes she'll pace the perimeter, around and around, looking up at the serene expressions on each statue, the dramatic little scenes rendered on each Station of the Cross, the texture of the stained glass illuminated by the streetlights outside.  
  
It's a different kind of comfort than when she talks with Father Matthew, but it becomes a rejuvenating ritual nonetheless.  
  
Which is why it's all the more jarring to come home from one such night to hear a clamor and a crash in the alley beside her building. Claire speeds up, flipping her key ring around so that her mace is tucked into her palm.  
  
"Claire," a man groans, staggering out from the alley. "Help." He's wearing what seems like a blindfold or hood, and he reaches up to pull it off with one bloody hand. If she weren't so used to seeing him in dim lighting, so accustomed to seeing him all in black, she wouldn't be able to recognize him, but as it is...  
  
The keys drop from her nerveless fingers.  _"Father Matthew?"_  He collapses to the pavement, leaving a red streak on the wall.  
  
_He must have been mugged,_  she thinks. She pulls out her phone to dial 911.  
  
"Don't," he says. "Please." It's then that she notices that his clothes are all wrong, rugged boots and black fatigue pants and a shirt that's...  _well._ He's way better built than one might expect of a Jesuit, she can tell that much. "Help," he says again.   
  
Claire stares at him, trying to make sense of what she's seeing. "...yeah," she says, without really thinking about it beyond  _priest bleeding out in an alley._  "Yeah, okay, um. Can you stand?" By the time they get upstairs, she's organized her thoughts well enough to know that she needs an explanation.   
  
He gives her one, but it sounds unbelievable.  
  
"Mild-mannered priest by day, holy vigilante by night?" she says, tugging the suture silk through his skin with more efficiency than mercy. "World on fire? Are you  _shitting_  me?"  
  
His forehead knits above clearly-sightless eyes; it's the first time she's seen him without his glasses, and he seems younger, somehow. More vulnerable, certainly, but the fact that he's shirtless and wounded might be contributing factors, too. "Is your vocabulary usually this vulgar?" he asks.  
  
"You punch people in the face after you hear them confess to mortal sins," she points out. "I think you can handle a few four-letter words."  
  
_"Still,"_  he says, and Claire shakes her head in bemusement while she ties off her last stitch.

 

 

_four_

 

The living room's empty by the time she wakes up, the bloodstained sheets neatly folded at the end of her couch. "Son of a bitch," she mutters aloud, thinking,  _I'm not going to let him off that easily..._  
  
Today's her day off, anyway. She can swing by St. Paul's while she's doing errands.  
  
Apparently, the church gets more traffic at noon on a Friday than at eleven-thirty at night. There's a couple of people clustered near the rightmost aisle, and as Claire watches, the door to one of the confessionals opens, and a parishioner exits. Another takes her place, leaving Claire and another man.  
  
"You can go ahead of me," he says. "I'm not here for penance, I'm here to have lunch with Matt - er, Father Matthew."  
  
"Friend of his?" Claire asks. He doesn't look like someone Matthew would be friends with; he's slightly stocky, has long dishwater-blonde hair and an expensive suit. Junior-level day trader on Wall Street, maybe.  
  
"Yeah, we practically grew up together. His dad worked for my dad, so," the man says, shrugging.  
  
"Butcher or boxing?" she says, and his eyebrows shoot up.  
  
"Oh, butcher," he answers. "How did you know-?"  
  
"You thought you were his only friend?" she asks, grinning. It's as she says it that she realizes that she  _does_  think of Matthew as a friend. Or, at least, that's the closest word she has for what they are to each other now.  
  
"Truthfully, I kinda did," he admits, returning her smile. "I'm Foggy Nelson, by the way."  
  
"Claire Temple," she says.  
  
Both doors to the confessional swing open, and the last parishioner hurries off. "That was quick," Foggy says. "Hey, buddy. I was just getting acquainted with your friend Claire, here... whoa, what the heck happened to your face?"  
  
Matthew's bruises look painfully livid and conspicuous in broad daylight, in this setting. "I got mugged," he says with deliberate emphasis, and Claire blinks, thinking,  _Foggy must not know._  
  
"Speaking of which, you owe me new sheets," she tells him, enjoying the reactions this elicits. Matthew gapes in consternation, speechless, and Foggy's eyes go wide. "I'm a nurse," she explains. "He got jumped around the corner from my apartment building, so he called me for help and I patched him up. But my living room throw pillows and guest linens are totally trashed."  
  
"You know what?" Foggy says,  _"I_  will replace them for you."  
  
"No, Foggy, you don't have to-" Matthew starts, but Foggy interrupts.  
  
"Look, I got the cushy job at Landman and Zack, you took that  _incomprehensible_  vow of poverty. Let me restore some balance to the universe. Or, oh, oh, consider this a donation. I'll write it off; everyone's a winner!" He beams at Claire, and she can't help but grin back.   
  
Even if Foggy  _is_  a shark in a suit, she sees why Matthew likes him.

 

 

_five_

 

Claire wakes up, groggy and disoriented. Her head aches. Her ribs ache. Her  _everything_  aches, and the more awake she becomes, the greater the pain she feels. She tries to burrow back into unconsciousness, but a familiar voice is calling her name.  
  
"Claire, Claire, please wake up, please, you need to wake up," the voice is saying.  
  
"Matt?" she mumbles.  
  
"Oh thank God," he says. There's a sharp spike of agony around her shoulders, and she realizes he's  _carrying_  her.  
  
"Ow," she tells him.  
  
"I'm sorry, we're nearly home, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I never meant for this to happen," he murmurs, and it's to this soothing litany of penitence that she drifts off into blissful oblivion.  
  
Claire wakes again in an unfamiliar bed, its mattress firm and narrow, yet almost too big for the room it's in. She can reach out with her left hand and touch one wall, and reach out with her right and open the door.  
  
Not that she's planning on moving that extravagantly anytime soon.  
  
"Oh, good, you're awake," Matt says, coming into view.  
  
"Where am I?" she asks in a dry rasp. "What happened?"  
  
"You're at the rectory," he tells her. "The Russians saw you rescue me the other night and decided you'd be excellent leverage. We convinced them otherwise."  
  
"We?" she says. Her throat sticks when she swallows. "Do you have any water?"  
  
"Yeah, here," he says, his arm slipping under her shoulders and helping her sit up. "You might've kicked one of them into traffic as they grabbed you. And maced two more." He sounds pleased - fond, even, maybe proud? - as he crosses the room. He comes back with a plastic tumbler of water, and steadies it when her hands shake too badly for her to drink.  
  
"What happened to the others?" she asks.  
  
He sits beside her, and the bed sags. "They've learned... contrition," he says.  
  
"Come on, Matt, don't yank me around. Did you kill them?"  
  
"No, they're alive. Unhappy, but alive," he says, and his expression is so open and earnest that she believes him. It's then that she notices that he's not wearing his glasses. "...how are you feeling?"  
  
"Like I'm the one that got pushed into traffic," she says.  With one hand, she prods at her face; she might have a black eye and a broken nose.  She needs a mirror.  
  
"It's the tranquilizer they used, it causes muscle stiffness. Hydration helps - finish that glass and I'll get you another." She's dealt with enough problem patients that she complies, but neither does she rush it, wanting to avoid stomach cramps. Matthew waits patiently, his head tipped at a curious angle.  
  
"...stop staring," she tells him.  
  
"I'm not- I  _can't-_ " he stammers. "What?"  
  
Claire waves a dismissive hand at him. "Whatever your impressionistic version of staring at me is, stop that," she says.  
  
"I'm just," he says. "I'm glad you're okay. I never wanted-"  
  
"I know," she says, draining her glass and handing it to him. "One more for the road."  
  
Matt's answering smile is a fleeting, skittish thing, replaced too soon by the anxious set of his mouth, the faint furrow between his eyebrows. "Do you have someplace else you can stay?" he asks as he makes another trip to the water pitcher and back.  
  
"My mom's," she says.  
  
"Do you want me to go with you?" he asks. "I mean, in case..."  
  
Claire glances around and realizes there's no clock in the room, nothing on the walls, not even a crucifix. There's a rosary in a small brass bowl on the nightstand next to an odd plastic pyramid plugged into the wall, but no decoration, really. Although if no one else knows about his particular way of perceiving the world, he's probably used to keeping up appearances. "What time is it?" she says.  
  
He reaches over to tap the triangular device. "Ten thirty five am," it announces.  
  
Claire grins, more in amusement at her own ignorance than anything else. "I think I can manage," she tells him. She finishes her water and slowly, haltingly, swings her legs over the side of the bed. "Where are my shoes?"  
  
"Here," Matt says, crouching to retrieve them from under the bed. "Let me help."  
  
The mere thought of bending over to lace up her shoes makes her want to go back to bed for a million years. "...fine."  
  
It's strangely intimate, watching him slip her shoes onto her feet, tie them up with meticulous care. She wishes she hadn't worn leggings yesterday; the heat from his hands bleeds through the material at her ankle, lighting up nerve endings already oversensitized by whatever drug she'd been dosed with.  
  
_Oh, no,_  she thinks.  _Oh, no._  And when she spies the tender, solicitous expression on Matt's face, she knows that she's not the only one totally screwed, here.  
  
"All done," he says, standing and offering her a hand up.  
  
She pretends she doesn't see it, and braces herself on the nightstand instead. "I can find my own way out," she tells him. "I don't want you to get in any more trouble than you might be already."  
  
"I'll be fine when I know you're fine," he says, his fingers brushing against her upper arm, like he wants to reassure her but doesn't know how. "Will you call when you get to your mom's, so I know you're safe?"  
  
"Yeah," Claire agrees. "And thank you for helping me get away from those goons last night, for taking care of me."  
  
Matt smiles softly, and she wonders if he can hear her heart breaking. "I guess we're even, then," he says.  
  
As she's leaving, she runs into another man - another  _priest,_  older and clearly not surprised to see her. "Let me walk you out," he tells her, voice gentler than his sharp gaze. "My name's Father Lantom, and I've been hoping to meet you for some time..." He guides her towards the exit, slowing his pace to match her labored progress. "You're Claire, right?"  
  
"Um," she says, feeling like a pinned butterfly under a magnifying glass, for all that he's not looking at her. "Yes, I am, Father."  
  
"Good," he says, nodding. "I know what you two have been up to, you know," and she feels her face heat.  
  
"I don't know what you mean-" she starts. "We're not-"  
  
He frowns. "So you're not the one responsible for stitching him up so neatly? I thought you were his nurse friend."  
  
"Oh," she says, chagrined.  In retrospect, last night's violence is written all over her face, so it's unlikely Father Lantom would jump to another - more scandalous - conclusion. "Yeah, that was me. So do you know about..."  
  
"His other calling, yes. I think... I think he's going to reach a crisis point soon. One man can't be both wolf and shepherd to a flock, after all. He'll have to decide." Claire stops in the doorway, and he turns to look at her, eyebrows lifted. "I've been wanting to ask the other people close to him to be mindful of this, and to help him choose wisely, if it comes to it. Can I trust you to do that, Claire?"  
  
If she says yes, she has to stay. Staying means any number of dangers, for herself and for Matt. But if leaving means abandoning him when he needs support the most...  
  
"Absolutely," she says.

 

 

_(plus one)_

 

Claire's not particularly surprised to see a black-clad vigilante climbing through her living room window at two am.  _This is my life now,_ she thinks to herself, and sighs.  
  
"I thought you were going to visit your mother," Matt says.  
  
"If you thought I was gonna be at my mom's," Claire replies, "then why are you here?"  
  
"I could tell you were home. I need your help."  
  
She gives him a quick appraisal. He doesn't seem hurt, but then, she's not the one with x-ray hearing. She dog-ears the right-hand page of her paperback and sets it aside. "You okay?" she asks.  
  
"It's not me," he answers. "She's at the church."  
  
"She?" Claire asks, but Matt's already halfway out the window to the fire escape, so she supposes she'll find out soon enough.  _Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, give me strength,_  she thinks, trying her very best to avoid watching him leave.  
  
Claire's newest patient turns out to be a blonde woman, huddled in one of the pews, blood trailing from her nose and a gash on her cheek. Her hand might also be broken, given how she's cradling it in her lap. "-they killed Ben Urich, just for helping me," she's saying to Matt as Claire approaches from the side aisle. Tears streak through the gore and grime on the girl's face. "They've been trying to kill me, too - for  _weeks._  So no, I'm not sorry, okay? I won't be sorry until every last one of those bastards is buried or behind bars."  
  
"Another vigilante, huh?" Claire asks, and the girl scrambles sideways, until her back bumps up against the pew divider. "It's okay, I'm a nurse. Jesus, Matt, what did you do to her?"  
  
"I kept her from killing the Senator's aide," he replies.  
  
"I told you, that was  _his_  gun - he kidnapped  _me!"_  The girl pulls her knees up, wrapping her good arm around them. "What do I have to do to get you to believe me?"  
  
"I believe you," Claire says gently, setting out her kit and pulling on her gloves. "Start from the beginning, knowing the whole story will help. How about the easy stuff first: what's your name?"  
  
"Karen," the girl answers. "Karen Page."  
  
It's almost dawn by the time Karen's done talking, laying out the whole sordid mess, from street-level drug deals to human trafficking, all leading gossamer-thin trails to Senator Fisk's office. Matt would question her for another day if he could, but Claire can see the adrenaline crash approaching and waves him off. "She needs rest, Matt," she declares. "Can she stay here?"  
  
"Yeah," he says. "We have a- a guest room in the rectory." Claire doesn't ask. She doesn't want to know why Matt hadn't put her there the other day instead of his own bed. She already knows why, but she doesn't know if  _he_  knows why.   
  
It's better not to ask.   
  
She has other questions, though. So as soon as Karen's tucked away asleep, Claire goes looking for Matt, hoping he hasn't left yet on whatever crusade this has become.   
  
To her relief, she finds him back in his clerical garb, crouched in the church confessional; he's hiding his vigilante costume under the bench, which he closes up as she draws near. "I know I keep saying this," he says, "but thank you."  
  
"I'm glad you weren't bleeding out on my couch this time," she replies, hoping to elicit a smile. He gives her one, but it's wan and fleeting. "What are you going to do?"  
  
"I don't know," he says. "Whatever it takes?"  
  
"No, no," she says, turning to sit so that she's facing him. "Don't do that. Don't give your whole heart and your life and your blood and your soul to this." Without thinking, she brushes his hair back from his face, fingertips lingering at the bruise still coloring his cheekbone.  
  
Matt's eyes slip closed and he leans, very lightly, into her touch. "All I have left are my life and my blood," he tells her, in a faint, despairing whisper. "I've already lost the other two."  
  
It takes her a moment to realize what he means, but when it sinks in, it pushes the air from her lungs all in a rush. "Oh," she says.  
  
"Oh?" he asks, and then -  _then!_  - he laughs, though there's no joy in it. "I tell you that my heart is yours and my soul is damned for the sake of it, and you say  _oh?"_  
  
"Well," she says. "At least you're not alone."  
  
"...oh," he breathes. He drops his head, blinking rapidly, and she thinks she sees the glint of tears. "I'm so sorry, Claire."  
  
"Why?" she asks. "Whatever else happens, I am so, so glad to have met you, to have you and all your-" she gestures expansively, _"weirdness_  in my life. But I don't want to see you become something you hate in some futile attempt to - what, destroy the Devil of Hell's Kitchen?"  
  
"I don't think that's what Fisk is," he says. "...you know, my grandmother always used to say, 'Be careful of the Murdock boys. They've got the Devil in them.' I think she was right. I think... I think that's why I joined the Church. I wanted to help people, sure, but I was also afraid... I thought if I gave my life to God, he'd cast the Devil out."  
  
Now Claire's eyes are stinging, too. She leans forward, bringing her other hand to his face, tilting his head up. Eye contact is pointless, but she wants him to feel her sincerity in the insistence of her voice, the solidity of her embrace. "You don't have the Devil in you, Matt. You're just a _person_ , a man like any other, with weaknesses, sure, but also with incredible blessings and a good, good heart. That's all."  
  
Matt's expression crumples, anxious and perplexed. "But-" he starts.  
  
Claire surprises them both by interrupting him with a kiss. It only lasts a second or two before she catches herself, pulling back with a gasp. He looks stunned, blinking up at her from the floor. He grazes his lower lip with two fingers, the tip of his tongue flashing into view before disappearing.  
  
Thoughtfully, like his mind's miles away, he says, "I was wondering how you'd taste."  _That shouldn't be hot,_  Claire thinks, but his words have kindled a heat that coils at the base of her spine anyway. "My sheets still smell like you," he continues, sounding wretched, sounding  _wrecked._  "I wanted to- I wanted  _so_  much, but I didn't-" It takes her a moment to comprehend, and then the image flashes into her mind, of Matt so hard he  _hurts,_  tossing and turning in his narrow bed but refusing to touch himself.  
  
Claire aches in sympathy, flushed with her own arousal and shame. "Oh, Matt," she says. "Matt, you-" She shifts forward, meaning to go to the floor beside him, pull him close so they can lean on each other, but he stops her, his hands on her shins.  
  
"Please," he says, the word cracking like glass. "Please, Claire, let me-" And slowly, slowly, his palms skim up to her knees, beneath the hem of her skirt, thumbs ducking into the space between her thighs and  _oh._  
  
It's then that she realizes that they've come too far, that neither of them will ever say no to the other, that she'll never refuse him anything. Not when his hands caress her with such trembling reverence, when he bows his head to press his lips to her skin with such fervent care. She moves where he guides her, lifts her hips when he tugs at cotton. His mouth finds where she's wet and wanting, his tongue tracing the shape of her while she murmurs reassurance, encouragement, praise.  
  
Claire lets her hand rest on the crown of his head, combing her fingers through his hair, and his muffled moan thrums through her pelvis. She arches up, gasping, and he does it again, learning what she likes through the hitch in her lungs, the quivering of her legs, the roll of her hips.  _Has he ever--?_  she wonders absently, but then he slips two fingers into her, crooking them just so, and all thought is banished by a bright, electric crest that has her muffling a cry into the back of her wrist.  
  
Returning to herself in stages, she can feel his ragged exhalations along her bare skin. His spine is bent, cheek pressed against her thigh, lungs working like a bellows. "Matt," she says, curling over him, arms around his shoulders. "Oh, Matt, come here, come here." She scoots up and drops to her knees beside him, stroking his face, peppering light kisses over his slick mouth and jaw.  
  
"I can't," he says, eyes squeezed shut. He's clutching at her forearms, and when she trails her hand down his chest to find his hot hard length straining behind his fly, he gives a broken moan. "Wait," he says, "I  _can't,"_  but he's pushing into her palm with little helpless thrusts anyway.  
  
Claire gets it, then. He thinks he needs to deny himself this, even now. She kisses him again, tasting herself on his lips, his tongue. "Matthew," she sighs, feeling him jolt beneath her, hearing his shaky sob as he comes at her touch.  
  
She rubs soothing circles into his back while he catches his breath.   
  
"What do we do now?" he asks in a small voice.  
  
"We deal with Hell later," she says, her stomach turning to lead and her spine to steel as she realizes where they are, what they've done. "We save Hell's Kitchen first."

 

 

 

_\- end -_

**Author's Note:**

> ...okay, more details for those curious about the AU:
> 
> \- the 'blind old Piarist' that helped Matt out was Stick, who in this AU is actually a member of a secret (hella militant) faction of the Knights Hospitaller, which is one reason why Matt's ties to the Church are stronger in this 'verse.  
> \- Foggy and Matt knew each other as kids, though they drifted apart a little after Jack Murdock died (under similar circumstances) and Matt had to move to the orphanage. Still, they kept in touch, and when they found out they got accepted to the same college, they applied to be roommates.  
> \- Yes, Matt is a virgin in this fic, but only according to certain definitions of the term (because Catholic). He did sow _some_ wild oats in college, though.  
>  \- Stick was SUPER pissed when he found out that Matt didn't become a Hospitaller, too, after the latter got his theology degree. Since Stick still left him like a total jackass in this 'verse, it doesn't really bother Matt.  
> \- Matt decided to be a Jesuit because of their reputation for higher education and also for social justice. (Irrelevant factoid: I'm also partial to them myself, as a general rule, as my father went to Georgetown.)  
> \- The Senator Fisk in this fic is Wilson, but he's a legacy. In this AU, his father won that first election and went on to bigger and better things, grooming Wilson to follow in his footsteps, both legal and illegal alike.  
> \- Foggy still got Karen out of jail; he was helping her as part of the pro bono hours that L&Z sets aside for legal aid (though only low-level employees usually do the work, as it's mostly for show); he and Marci end up quitting during the whole Fisk investigation and start up Nelson & Stahl.  
> \- Matt gets Karen a job at N&S Marci isn't thrilled about this until she hears some of the things Karen did to bring Fisk down - then she's impressed enough that they eventually become friends (possibly also fwb / girlfriends? not sure). Reasonably enough, this terrifies both Foggy and Matt.  
> \- Much to Matt's chagrin, Karen also continues her quasi-vigilante work, but she ends up less 'punch people in the face until we both fall down' and more 'hacking & information retrieval.' Also unlike Matt, she has fewer qualms about killing, because in this AU, her survival was much harder won without Daredevil's early involvement, and it becomes a point of contention between them.  
> \- Matt ends up leaving the clergy. Well, technically, Father Lantom kicks him out. Matt confesses almost immediately - uh, omitting some pertinent details, like _location_ \- and Lantom's basically like "gdi but you're not going to do it again, right?" Matt's like "I... honestly don't know." Lantom tells him to figure it out, and fast. Then things go all pear-shaped and explosive w/r/t Fisk, Matt does the Daredevil thing, and when he gets back to the rectory, he kind of locks himself in his room for three days of soul-searching. Lantom's reaction to this is basically "if this decision is that difficult, then it's a sign, c'mon now."  
>  \- After that, Matt ends up sleeping on Foggy's couch for weeks, totally despondent. Then Foggy points out that Matt had the ONLY JOB IN THE WORLD where he could get fired for having a (hot - so, so hot, dude) girlfriend, WHO HAS AN APARTMENT, TOO BTW  
> \- I'm not entirely sure where it goes from there, either 'Matt runs a surprisingly popular blog about crime, morality, faith, etc, with which he occasionally exposes corruption in NY' or 'Foggy convinces him to go to law school with very little effort and Matt joins N&S.' 
> 
> *shrug* Not having a complete follow-up is why I'm not planning on writing a sequel, but I thought I'd share the few tidbits I did have about this 'verse for any who might be interested. =/


End file.
